Waiting Room
by Vaughn's Jenn
Summary: ~:~ COMPLETE~:~ "They sit close, huddled together in an effort to share the warmth that neither of them have."


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Waiting Room

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A Jennfic

They sit close, huddled together in a futile attempt to share the warmth that neither of them have…

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: on a short hiatus from my other fics, sorry about the wait~:~:~:~:~:~:

They sit close, huddled together in a futile attempt to share the warmth that neither of them have. She has her head leaned against his now-weak shoulder, lips muttering inaudible sounds, eyelids quivering. He sits against the cold concrete wall for support, giving her all the energy he possesses and the energy he is trying accumulate by letting the wall take his weight, helping her stay in her more or less upright position.

Both are shivering, uncomfortable. Both are unable to move into a different position because of the slow stiffening of their muscles and the pain that jars their senses and their perception of reality with every movement, every breath.

And there is also a kind of security in the way that they are lending themselves to one another, a kind of admirable courage in the way both clench their jaws in an effort to keep their teeth from clattering. He wonders if he still has any control at all over his body and he cautiously wills his finger to move. Just a little.

There is almost no expressing the utter helplessness that rolls over his features and floods into his eyes, drowning nearly all light; he cannot even reign over his own body, how can he give any sort of help to the woman leaning up against him? His whole body feels as if it is on fire from the ever-constant tingles that keep shooting up his spine, reminding him that his whole body is asleep.

A chill takes over her body too and she involuntarily shudders, moving both their bodies in the process and awakening them from painful slumber with a clash of fireworks and the deepest aches of bone against atrophied muscle. She closes her eyes and tries to think, an attempt to at least keep her mind from immobilizing as the rest of her body has.

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How long has it been since we arrived? One hundred and fifty four days.

And how many hours is that? Three thousand six hundred ninety six hours.

And minutes? Two hundred twenty one thousand seven hundred and sixty.

Is that right? Carry the three and then the five and add four to eighteen…yes that's right.

Seconds? Thirteen million three hundred and five thousand six hundred seconds. 

Six hundred and one.

Six hundred and two.

And three.

She smiles slightly as she feels dry lips land on her chilled cheeks and stay there for a minute as if it is an attempt to bring heat somehow to her face.

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Who is that man sitting behind me loving me the way he is? Michael C. Vaughn.

How old is he? 34.

When is his birthday? November 27, 1969.

How many days ago was that?

She is tired now, doesn't have the will or the constitution to figure out how many days old Vaughn is, how many hours and minutes and seconds.

She bites her lip in frustration. Just last week she was able to go through her entire family and Vaughn's and then add up their seconds of life despite their ever-changing status.

Everything is wearing down.

"Michael?" Her voice is cracked and uncertain from unuse and she hears Michael running his thirsty tongue over cracked lips as loud as thunder before answering. As if magnified by isolation. And despair.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me a story." Even she is surprised at how pleading and childlike her voice is, what it has become. She has been reduced to a child… one asking another to help her survive. The weak leading the weak.

She hears the unvoiced sadness that hangs in the air like a heavy curtain, dragging down on existence, pulling everything in its sphere with it. The strain of attempt followed by the suicidal darkness of failure.

"Sydney… I'm sorry- I can't."

She knows. She knows he can't and that he would is he could and she feels like she should beat herself for merely asking it of him. But that would require movement.

"Do you know how many minutes we've been in here?"

His slight smile makes a noise that echoes in the small cell, makes her willing to sell her soul for a tube of Chapstick. She knows that he has been doing this too.

"Two hundred twenty one thousand seven hundred and sixty six."

She grins back, pulling up every ounce of energy she has left to lift her head off his comforting shoulder, to lean it back against the wall. But the sudden emptiness she feels as a consequence for breaking their physical connection is worth it for now she is at his level, can see his face in all its agony, in all its love. 

"And forty one seconds."

"Forty two."

She laces her brittle fingers through his, closing her eyes for bittersweet darkness. "Forty three."

His heart breaks as he watches her, looks at her sitting so close to him, breathing the same air as he has, sleeping the same dreams. His next words come out a whisper, as flimsy and nearly intangible as a feather but there all the same and the meaning that they carry solidify it to have weight. "I love you."

Despite everything, despite their surroundings, their mistakes, their denials, they are in a situation where lies no longer work. And so the truth must come out. His eyes look trace her face, so thin and frail as it is now and he knows that his must be a reflection of that same hollowed bone structure screaming for nutrition.

"Don't say it like it's a good bye." Despite her seemingly cold words, he hears the true meaning behind them, knows that she would say them back if she had the energy. If she knew for sure that she could love him that way she would want to love him; she invests so much time in the people and things she cares about, she's not about to go half-ass now. 

"It's not." He feels her fingers tighten a little around his own in an unasked for confirmation. 

He'd kiss her if he had the energy.

The door opens suddenly, with a bang that seems deafening to their ears and they wince at the sudden eruption of light that has made it through into the dark and dank cell. There is a silhouette standing there, waiting, watching.

The wait is over.

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END

Hey…sorry, I'm not exactly sure where this came from but I had to get it out…started writing in the car (don't worry I wasn't driving) and so here it is. Don't blame me if the math is incorrect, I did it by hand in the car so that should explain itself.

I realize that there is no actual serious plot but I think I just wanted to play with words and imagery a little, let me know what you think~

Review,

Jenn


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